Balance
by Wofl
Summary: Dean is angry. Luckily, he has Dean to calm him down. Sequel to Conversion. Wincest. Mature. Angst. strange concepts concerning vampires.


When Dean wakes, there is no room in his mind for rational thought. While he slept, a vicious beast has somehow stolen its way into his head and set up a residency of hate and rage. He comes to with both yammering in the forefront of his consciousness. They have ousted everything else. Dean wakes with rage boiling and furious shouts on his lips.

Sam is there; of course he is, leaning over Dean with a mockery of a concerned frown, brows furrowing. Dean is consumed with the sudden realization that there is a monster inside of his brother, using his body, stealing his face. Not only has that monster ruined his brother, tainted everything Dean has worked his entire life to keep safe, but he has destroyed Dean along with it. This monster, this creature, it's not Sam anymore. Not his Sam, not really. He can only be angry, furious; can only scream louder, loathe deeper.

Had he not been tied, expertly, to the bed, he probably would punch Sam. Well, not Sam, but whatever it is inside his brother that has twisted everything sideways and uprooted their entire existence. Dean probably would try to beat the thing out of his little brother's body.

It's not a rational thought, he knows, but neither is this bubbling fury that has clenched around his mind, tearing at his consciousness like vultures on a fetid cadaver. Ravenous, relentless. There is so much hate, like everything that has ever gone wrong in Dean's life has been thrown back up and whatever it was that had kept him from blaming the world for it has been stripped away. Even his _bones_ feel livid.

"Sam," he snarls, and twists, furious desperate, in his bonds. "Untie me, _now_."

"No," Dean hears his brother growl. Sam leans in, brings his lips too close, and Dean can't stop himself from trying to bite. It's an outlet, and Dean needs one. He needs to hit something - kill something, even. The rage is consuming him, auto piloting his actions. His teeth close around empty air and Sam pulls away with a smirk. "And that's why."

"You _bastard_, " Dean can't stop the words, isn't sure he wants to; and once they start, they rise and grow, taking on a will of their own as they spill from his lips like poison and damnation. He curses, uttering all the terrible things he knows how to say, malice injected into every word. He tells Sam he hates him, tells him he should have killed him when he had the chance.

"You don't mean those things." It's a soft whisper in his ear, and Dean wonders how Sam managed to get so close, so quickly.

And it scares Dean to realize that he _does_ mean it. He does. That is the most terrible sin imaginable, but he _does_. With the rage usurping his body, he means his words with every fiber in his being.

Because if he thinks about it, _really_ thinks, it can be claimed that all of Dean's life, every aspect revolves around one central factor, and that alone is the reason Dean has ended up like this. That reason is Sam.

And Sam? Sam is a selfish bastard. Always has been, even when they were kids and he insisted on eating the last of the Lucky Charms. Dean had let him. And the other day, cornered in the bathroom stall, Dean had let him be selfish again. He hadn't tried to fight back, not really. He had given up his entire life for his brother in favor of this new, warped existence where they have swapped sides, are one of the hunted now, instead of being the hunters.

So yeah, right now, he _does_ mean it. And the terror that comes with that realization is enough to pull him back away from the edge of blinding rage, if only marginally.

"It's eating you alive, isn't it?" Mumbled words, low in his ear, almost a hiss. "Rage and hate and you can't control it, right? You can't get away from it."

Dean pauses at the words, chest heaving, throat raw from screaming, wrists burning and chafed. He shakes his head and the fog seems to lift a little. "Why?" he manages, between breaths.

"Empathy," Sam says, lips drifting closer, tongue inching forward to ghost along the shell of Dean's ear. "Only humans have empathy. It's your counterbalance to hate. Without it, your other emotions run unchecked."

The words take a moment to process, churning through Dean's mind until it clicks and he grinds his teeth, ready for round two. Because, fuck, how does Sam _know_ all this? They've only known vampires even existed for a couple of months. Truly, it's not all that surprising, considering how big a geek Sam is, but it does make Dean wonder when he had the _time_ to look into all this. It's galling, just knowing how much sneaking around Sam has done.

Once again, he wonders how Sam had hidden this from him and refuses to acknowledge that the real problem at hand is the fact that he had been so wrapped up in his own grief that he had failed to notice in time.

He opens his mouth with half a mind to scream at Sam that this is all his fault, everything. He's not sure what purpose it will achieve, considering it's not even true; but the rage beast in his mind thinks it is a good idea, and seems to have a comparatively thorough influence on Dean's actions at the moment. Somewhere between his head and his lips, however, the message gets jumbled. What comes out instead, and may or may not be a direct result of the way Sam's lips area brushing against his neck is, "How do I stop it?"

"You need to find a new counterbalance," Sam states, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. He shifts, climbs up onto the bed in one fluid motion and straddles Dean, planting one huge hand on either side of Dean's head and stares until Dean has no choice but to tilt his head to meet his gaze.

"Yeah?" Dean asks, and wonders why it's so hard to breath, suddenly. "And what's yours?"

Sam smirks at that and glances down at Dean's body. Dean realizes for the first time since he woke up that he is naked. Sam tilts his head, bends his arms, and starts mouthing Dean's collarbone - wet heat over exposed flesh and Dean feels the rage dissipate more, heedy lust in its wake.

"You," Sam says, breaking the contact.

"Sam," Dean growls and isn't sure whether it's a request or a warning. Really, it doesn't matter, because Sam isn't really open for suggestions at the moment. The way Sam is moving - mouth hot and damp on Dean's skin, teeth employed on occasion, tongue clever and teasing - speaks of an agenda and, well, Dean's hands are kinda tied. So, whatever Sam wants, Sam gets. As usual.

What Sam wants is Dean. He shivers when Sam runs his fingers down his sides, a light brush of blunt nails over his ribs and then pressure, firm and just this side of painful digging into Dean's hips and he squirms beneath the sensation, twisting his wrists futilely.

Dean has never been one to handle being helpless well. It goes against every instinct that has been honed into his brain since the tender age of four. It makes him edgy, nervous, and damn it all if it isn't one of the most powerful turn-on's he's ever experienced. He's completely at Sam's mercy. His dick is already hard and Sam hasn't even touched it yet; hasn't even guaranteed that he will.

Right now, he's counting Dean's ribs with his tongue, and Dean is panting as Sam's teeth graze over the bones one by one and marveling at how the creature in his head is screaming and writhing in its final death throes. Rage thwarted by lust, hate devoured by need. He can almost physically feel the emotional scales balancing back out into normalcy.

Sam frees his hip with one hand and moves to brush cold fingers over one of Dean's nipples before his fingers turn brutal, pinching sharply. Dean groans, arching into the touch and, yeah, he's definitely not mad anymore. He just wants Sam to keep touching him, give him more, dammit. If he weren't tied, he'd be taking the lead, shoving Sam roughly where he wants him to go, pace frantic and desperate and messy - just the way Dean likes it.

This? This is torture. Sam's taking his time, mouthing his way down Dean's torso. He pauses to dip his tongue into Dean's navel, which feels fucking _weird_. Dean's not sure how much he likes it. He's almost relieved when his brother moves on, his brother's teeth insisting on a detour to Dean's hip in order to clamp down on the bone hard enough to make Dean gasp and attempt to free himself from the ropes again.

"Fuck, Sam, come on," his voice is pitched low with need and he bucks pointedly, wrapping his legs around Sam's back. His thigh muscles clench as he tries to maneuver Sam closer to the parts of him that are begging for attention. His toes curl, digging into soft flesh as Sam finally relents and wraps one merciful hand around his cock and presses spit-slick lips to the tip, breath tickling hot over screaming nerves.

Sam doesn't stop there, he draws Dean into his mouth, cheeks caving in as he sucks hard and moves his tongue in ways that have Dean swearing and throwing his head back, eyes squeezed shut tight. Dean finds himself thanking God, though he's fairly certain God has nothing to do this debauchery. But _shit_ if he isn't bucking his hips, thrusting his dick right down Sam's throat and _Sam is letting him_. Sam is taking it, all of it. And more. Sam opens his throat and draws Dean in further extracting a strangled yelp from him.

Combine that with Sam's fingers, which are suddenly digging into the soft flesh of his thighs and dragging across the pale skin, leaving behind angry red lines and it only takes Dean another minute or so before he's coming, hissing and clenching his fists around empty air.

Sam sucks him dry, swallows every drop and doesn't let go until he surpasses pleasure and streamlines right on towards pain and Dean feels like whimpering beneath the touch. Only then does he release Dean's cock, wiping a hand across the corner of his mouth as he fixes a half-lidded gaze on Dean.

Dean is still catching his breath, but he manages to spare some air in order to mutter a sated _fucking hell, Sam._ Because really, what else can he say after that?

Sam smirks and crawls up the bed, stretching out beside Dean. He presses his lips tight to Dean's and the older gladly accepts the intrusion, lets Sam ravage his mouth, tasting himself on Sam's tongue. Beneath that, there's the faint coppery tang of blood. It makes him thirsty, sends a spike of pain through his gums, but it's nowhere near the agony of before. Until now, Dean hadn't even remembered the pain, and now, he can only be thankful that it's gone, though he doesn't know why.

Sam breaks away, forehead wrinkling in contemplation and he grabs Dean's jaw with one hand, squeezing tightly and pulling down until Dean has no choice but to open his mouth. Sam uses his other hand to hold up Dean's lip, peering with interest at something Dean can't see.

"Your teeth are done growing in," Sam says, and the curiosity gets the better of Dean. He lifts his tongue and runs it along teeth that are thinner and sharper than before, set in tight rows. Sam seems satisfied and he releases Dean's face, settling back down beside Dean. Much to his annoyance, Sam raises one hand and runs it through Dean's hair, petting him, almost, and humming thoughtfully.

Dean clenches his teeth (_fangs? They're fangs now, right?_) and ignores the residual ache in his gums. It's not bad, he can deal with it fine, but he'll be damned if he's going to lay here placidly while Sam treats him like some sort of lapdog.

"Sammy," he warns, jerking his head away from the touch. "Quit it."

"So you're feeling better then?" Sam asks, huffing in a way that hints of amusement. "Think I can untie you?"

Dean twists his aching wrists and nods. He's calm now, anger left far behind. He's still not sure, really, how all this stuff works; the rules of people and the rules of vampires seem like such polar opposites. All the folklore he's ever heard about the creatures (admittedly, most of it comes from Buffy) is pure crap, just like Dad said. It's _nothing_ like the movies.

But he's made it this far, with Sam's help. That knowledge is enough to settle and cement the calm. His wrists burn as the knots fall away, they're raw and red. He rubs them carefully, letting out a shaky breath. Sam settles back against him again and he's not trying to pet him anymore, so Dean doesn't protest.

The scales are even now, Sam's warm weight at his side negating all the pessimistic thoughts that still simmer somewhere beneath his skin. They're there, but they're manageable; like a wall has been built to hold them back. Relief curls through Dean's gut and he lets his head fall back, eyes fall closed.

He's not sure how it works, or why; but as long as Sam stays here, helps him keep the balance, Dean thinks that maybe it'll be okay. 


End file.
